Memories pressured spot

< Anna Tantsyura




Memories pressed on the spot. My world is made up of two notebooks, pencils and white wine that comes to my way. And how many days pass, I still look in your eyes that look with photos and moan my tantrums and poems, probably worthy of monographs.
I remember everything. As if you - not a dream, the striped sweater that hangs on my hanger as memory, once he has your smell I do not radiate. You do not know what happened in that night, and how I was vomiting, so strong, on a part of and that you are the hero of my dreams and that I sincerely wish you happiness.
You're bold, independent and intoxicating, all this brings me to ecstasy, and your indifference cohesive phrases can not cling. You are a rare infection. I got here and wander between the lines and what did I - at least in the pool with his head - forgetting the truth about the life lesson that those available are not desired at times
. I drink wine and eat French cheese and look very nice and happy. But you do not know what you - my mime that you're the hero of the drama theater, which is called my life for me. You just boulders lying here ...

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